


(L)Awful Evil: His Own Medicine

by Cythro



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: AU, Execution, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cythro/pseuds/Cythro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monokuma gets it in the neck. 'nuff said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(L)Awful Evil: His Own Medicine

His Own Medicine

The wheel spun slower, slower, slower... The third wheel of the slot machine was creaking onto Kirigiri's face. Monokuma grinned evilly - the girl'd die, and the plan would work! His limited independent functions were running smoothly, and no override came through. He was on top of the world - or at least, as high up as a bear could get.

And then the machine coughed. It happened so fast; a puff of black smoke, a few sparks, and the lights became blinding. When it was visible again, there were gasps. Because the three wheels had lined up perfectly. And - to Monokuma's horror, to his utter despair - they showed his face. The off-white grin twitched for a moment, self-preservation circuits firing, claws extending - but to no avail. Unable to resist the control, kicking in now, stronger than ever, he raised his gavel and hit the red button. And his throne was so high above him before he even registered the change that it took him a while to notice that he was falling; his claws flailing uselessly, his eye dimming, control circuits bracing him for impact.

It was in his head. He couldn't fight it. That face - that girl.. boy.. program's face, twisted in rage, distorted beyond life, screaming at him. His connection to the outside severed, his memory card blackened and useless, Monokuma sank to the floor and blacked out.

\----------------------------------------------------------

The classroom was empty but for the bear. It loomed above him - he could see his paws, his two-tone stomach, his feet, but he had no idea who he was. He ran to the corner and leapt; ceiling panels shifting above him, some long-forgotten instinct propelling him to the cubby-hole above the area, keeping him still and quiet and above all unseen.

The camera view changed, and there was a gasp from the courtroom. One Monokuma stood laughing over the dismantled body of another on a miniature auditorium stage; the bomb inside the 'corpse' showing roulette wheels on the timer before detonating its killer. This was his punishment; he would kill and be executed for it, hundreds of times, thousands of times. He would suffer as the others had suffered.

The laughter of Alter Ego went unheard.

Another camera angle: The Waste Disposal, but smaller, more confined. Ten Monokumas fought, claws bared, striking and weaving, fighting with the exact same style, the exact same techniques. As one, they lunged. As one, they fell. As one, the wheels spun and the lifeless shells detonated, the incinerator burning bright behind them. 

The screen split into four camera shots: The stairwells. The lowest stairwell had a small, cartoonish thermometer taped to the front; it filled with black-and-white, the counter ascending in hundreds of thousands at a time, then millions, trillions - then off the edge of the smallish screen and away. When the thermometer filled, there was a loud clang and the gate shot open; the other cameras shifted to show a seething, teeming mass of black-and-white rushing to the next floor.

This pattern continued; floors opened, trillions upon trillions died, more rushed up. Until the last floor's gate made itself known.

All but 16 had to die before the last floor would open.. And the thermometer was full.

\----------------------------------------------------------

15 Monokumas rushed to the fifth floor, and from there it became more complex. There was a moment's respite as they collapsed; then, after a minute or two with no camera input, it refocussed. There were Monokumas in uniform; some in wigs, tights and dresses; some in suits, glasses; some even in kimonos or yukatas of traditional dress. They stood, as one, and they began to move. Some ran, some walked, some strode, some stood still and waved their arms.

The first to die was in a wig, in a bathroom, and the killer was hit with a minigun. It fired bullets with a baseball-like paint job. The killer was dressed much like Kuwata had been, but this was more brutal. This was revenge.

The next was one slightly shorter than the others, androgynous, and allowed some dignity - at first. Then their corpse was crucified by another, and the killer - angry, and with hair sharpened to a spike - was run over by motorcycle after motorcycle, emerging from one wall and entering another seamlessly..

The third and fourth murders were a fatter one in grey and a thinner one in a white suit. The killer was burned, hung, drawn, quartered, shot, and the remains were crushed by a fire engine from above; this was in the auditorium, but it wasn't cleaned after. None of them were. The blood remained.

The fifth to die was slightly out of order; a slim one in a blonde wig, impaled by spears, but laid to rest on a small bed of flowers. Alter Ego didn't want this one to suffer. Mukuro Ikusaba was almost innocent. She got to die late.

The sixth was stabbed, but poisoned themselves. It was forced down their throat by a hose from the ceiling; it was just water.

Electrified water. The massive, faux-muscular Monokuma fell.

The seventh - about to die - was dressed as Enoshima herself. And then.. it went wrong for the poor, tortured Alter Ego.

The remaining Monokumas, dressed to a fault like Kirigiri, Naegi, Asahina, Fukawa, Hagakure and Togami, turned on each other. Their claws extended and they tore each other to pieces, laughing maniacally as they did so. The Enoshima-design one laughed from behind them and threw itself onto the explosion from them, becoming little more than ash.

And the last Monokuma of them all, the one that hid, the original, climbed down. It tentatively explored; it crept around the first floor, then second, third, fourth and fifth. It headed back to the stairs down, completely impassive at the carnage and destruction around it. It was the survivor. It would have to - according to its programming - preserve itself at any cost. It could not allow itself to die.

It kneeled, slowly. It lay down on its front. The wheels began to spin, but the bomb was wrenched from its chest and thrown down the stairwell. Its eye dimmed and faded, and the camera panned out to reveal what had happened. The knife in the back of that last Monokuma's throat.

And standing over him, grinning at the snatching away of hope, at the despair of losing her one companion - herself, to a degree... Was Junko Enoshima.

She mimed a gun at the camera and it winked off to static.


End file.
